"The waves seem to say `Hush!' and speak to me, as softly as if they wanted to send me to sleep!" "Bravo, young lady!" put in the Captain, overhearing her remark.
"`Rocked in the cradle of the deep,' as the old song runs, eh?
Though I've almost forgotten all my Greek knocking about the world, or rather had it knocked out of me in a midshipmen's mess, if I recollect aright, old Homer describes the noise of the waves nearly in your own words, my dear.

His term for it is _polyploisboio thalasses_--the `murmuring of the many-voiced sea!' Grand, isn't it; grand, eh?
But, let us walk round the castle, and then you will see and hear it better." They accompanied him, accordingly, around the sloping rampart; Mrs Gilmour walking by the side of the old sailor, while Bob and Nellie lingered behind with Dick.
On their way round the castle, Master Bob occasionally pitched in a piece of stick for Rover to fetch out of the sea, which the energetic dog did with the utmost gusto; barking with glee as he dashed into the water and coming out sedately with his coat all dripping, to deposit the stick at his master's feet, with a shake that sent a shower of drops like rain all over them, making them laugh in glee as great as his.
The stragglers presently came up with the seniors of the party who had seated themselves on a little ledge of the wall on the highest point of the glacis at the back of the old fortification, from whence away to the west the sun could be seen setting in a glory of crimson and gold behind the dockyard, with the masts of the ships standing out in red relief, as if on fire.
In front were the purple hills of the Isle of Wight, with the white- terraced Ryde lying in between, its houses lit up likewise by the rays of the sunset, and their windows all aflame; and, under their feet, stretching away to where it met the hills opposite and to the harbour's mouth and Haslar breakwater on the right, with the now twinkling Nab light on the extreme left, was the dancing, murmuring, restless sea, its hue varying every instant, from the rich crimson and gold it reflected from the western horizon to the darker shades of evening that came creeping up steadily from the eastward, blotting out by degrees its previous bright tones.
Two or three merchant ships were anchored at Spithead; but there was not a single sail moving in sight.
All was still; and, as if in harmony with the scene, the Captain and Mrs Gilmour sat in silent contemplation of the sight before them, neither uttering a word.
The children, however, were not quiet long.
"Hi, Rover, fetch it, good dog!" cried out Bob presently, pitching the stick into the water that laved the base of the sloping rampart.

"Fetch it out, sir; fetch it." Rover raced, slipping and sliding, down the slope, plunging in with an impetus that sent him souse in head and ears under the surface; but, he soon re-appeared to view and, swimming out to where the stick floated, gripped it valiantly and made his way back to the shore, holding it in his mouth crosswise.
Now, however, poor Rover experienced more trouble in climbing out than he had probably anticipated; for, it being deep water at the foot of the ramparts and the stones being slippery, as the animal got his fore-paws on the stonework and tried to raise his hind legs, back he would slip again into the sea.
"Poor fellow!" said Bob.

"Why, he can't get up.

I will go and help him." So saying, he began to clamber down the slope.
"Stop, boy, stop!" cried the Captain excitedly.